


Mike Stamford Knows Everything

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Facebook Prompts [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, Nothing triggering, Post-Season/Series 04, Post-The Final Problem, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Sherlock is a Good Parent, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tungsten - Freeform, anything else will give it away, just cuteness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-22 07:42:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11375673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: John meets Mike Stamford for a long overdue catch up at the pub. How does Mike know more about Sherlock's plans than John does?





	Mike Stamford Knows Everything

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a tumblr prompt (in notes at the end, because spoilers, sweetie). 
> 
> Thanks as usual to the lovely supportive group over at Facebookland.
> 
> Written in two hours with barely a read through - please do let me know of any typos etc. <3

“Are you sure you won’t join us, Sherlock?” John tried one last time. He paused in the entranceway of their flat as he spoke, shrugging his jacket on. “Mike was the one that introduced us, after all.”

Sherlock, laid supine on the sofa, did not deign to open his eyes. “You’ll be meeting him at the pub for a beer, John. In all the years we have known each other, how often have I accompanied you to such an event?”

John rolled his eyes, a fond smile on his face. “Twice. You’ve come to the pub twice.” He replied in an amused tone.

“And would you consider those to be enjoyable experiences?” Sherlock asked, with the tone of a person who knows the answer to their question.

“Well,” John considered, walking slowly over to Sherlock, the same smile gracing his face, “the first time, you deduced everyone in the room and ended up in a fight with that obnoxious card cheat. We got kicked out and I haven’t been back to the Cock and Arms since.”

“And the second, John?” Sherlock stirred, his own bright eyes meeting John’s, a fondness softening his gaze.

“The second,” John murmured, propping one hip on the edge of the couch, “had a rather more satisfactory ending.” He leaned over, brushing his lips over Sherlock’s, the familiar touch still sending a thrill through him.

“Indeed,” Sherlock replied, lifting his head slightly, pressing their lips together, “once we’d both stopped apologising for All That.” ‘All That’ was their code for the disastrous period in which Sherlock was shot, Rosie was born, Mary died, and they encountered Eurus. The understanding they shared now was that grown only though shared experience of pain, fear and loss. That they had both come out of it alive was astounding enough, but the realisation of their deeper emotional connection was nothing short of miraculous, and neither took it for granted. There were still body parts in the fridge, and a general grousing about running out of milk; the grumbles were now met with fond kisses and protestations of “But you love me, John!”, more often followed by a muttered, “Yes I do, God help me.”.

And he did, very much. Brushing another kiss over Sherlock’s mouth, John grinned, standing up once more. “I’ll send your regards, will I?” Sherlock waved a hand lazily, watching John as he turned to clatter down the stairs.

+++

“So how’s Scotland treating you, then?” John asked, looking at Mike over the rim of his pint. “You look bloody amazing, mate.”

Mike patted his non-existent stomach self-consciously. “I do, don’t I?” He answered, chuckling at himself. “It’s all the walking – too hard to get a car up to some of the crofts out there, you know.” He nattered on, sharing the details of his new life. John hadn’t been surprised to hear Mike had met someone – he was a lovely guy, after all – but when he’d announced he’d be moving to Scotland, John had been floored.

“Not fulltime,” Mike had explained over the phone. He’d been spending weekends in Scotland with his girlfriend, and an opportunity had come up for them to live in the village she’d grown up in. “There’s a doctor there already, an English bloke. He’s wanted to move back to England for a while, but he doesn’t want to leave the village without a doctor. We’ve come to an agreement – six months each in London, six months in Coupar Angus.” When John, stunned into silence, had not spoken, Mike added, “Bart’s has agreed to make me part time, so it’s win-win, really.”

In his shock at the news, John knew he’d been pretty unsupportive of his friend, and he and Mike hadn’t spoken in quite a while, since before he'd married Mary. When Molly had mentioned recently that he’d be returning again for his six month stint in London, John had made the effort to get in contact. Things had been stilted at first as they spoke over the phone, but John was pleased Mike had agreed to meet him at the pub. They’d gone through the explanations and apologies from Before, and John was eager to move on with Now, instead.

When Mike paused for breath after describing the treacherous sounding hike up to visit one particularly stubborn old crofter, John grinned. “Bet you wouldn’t think that’d be your life, hey?”

Mike snorted. “Come on John, if I’d told you twenty years ago you’d be living with the world’s only consulting detective, running around London while your housekeeper babysits your daughter, whose mother was an assassin who died protecting the man she shot in the heart, I’m pretty sure you’d have had me sectioned.” John grinned – he’d told Mike the whole story, in the end, Mycroft and his state secrets be damned. Mike deserved to know the whole truth, and the look on his face as John recounted tale after tale of their exploits had been worth risking yet another kidnapping.

“Agreed.” John raised his glass. “To not being sectioned!”

Mike touched his glass to John’s, and they polished off the last of their pints. He raised two fingers, ordering another round as he asked, “You’re happy, though, John?”

John nodded slowly. “Yeah, mate, I am.” He took a deep breath. “As a matter of fact, I’m thinking about marriage.”

Mike raised his eyebrows, swallowing his beer before he grinned to himself, chuckling again.

“What.” John’s flat statement was more of a question despite the inflection.

“Well, you’re the second person to say that to me today.” He glanced sideways at John, who frowned. This was familiar, he thought, shaking off the tingle of déjà vu.

“Who was the first?” John asked, the words coming automatically. As his brain caught up, eyes opening wide, Mike chuckled again.

+++

“No, I told you specifically what I wanted. If you are too much of an imbecile to follow instructions given in plain English, I will have to find a jeweller with infinitely more intelligence.” Sherlock snapped. He snatched up his diagrams and handwritten directions and flounced out of the shop, leaving the examples of the jeweller’s inferior work on the display cabinet. Grinding his teeth, he ignored the man signalling him from the dark sedan, striding down the street in the opposite direction. The car drove off immediately, he noted with satisfaction. A few moments later Sherlock stopped as the same black car completed its turn around the block, cutting him off. The window rolled down once more, his brother’s irritated face looking out at him.

“What is it?” Sherlock snapped. A raised eyebrow from Mycroft was all that was needed, and Sherlock capitulated. “Fine. But it has to be perfect, exactly right, do you hear me?” A tilted head said, “Of course,” far more eloquently than if Mycroft had opened his mouth, and Sherlock handed over his paperwork.

“One week,” were Mycroft’s only words as the car slipped quietly into the flow of traffic.

“Five days!” Sherlock shouted after it, knowing it was futile but doing it anyway.

He grinned to himself. Mycroft had not asked for any money. He could foot the bill himself.

+++

“It’s here!” Sherlock all but shouted, bounding up the stairs as the downstairs door slammed in the face of the nameless suit who’d delivered his package, six days after he’d spoken to Mycroft.

“What’s here?” John asked, yawning as he walked out of the kitchen scratching his head. He was dressed in pyjama pants (Sherlock’s), t-shirt (his own) and dressing gown (Sherlock’s), looking slightly like a child wearing his father’s clothes, though Sherlock had long ago learned to stop making those particular observations. John’s shorter stature would probably never be on the ‘okay to tease about’ list.

“Is it for me?” Rosie asked excitedly, popping her head around the corner.

“Back at the table with your toast, sweetie.” John told her, as Sherlock assured her it wasn’t for her, but he would wait until she’d finished her breakfast before opening it. He’d spoken before thinking it through, forgetting how long a four year old could take to eat a single piece of toast. Mycroft would have followed the instructions exactly, but he was still impatient to see two things: what they looked like, and John’s face when he saw them. Bouncing up and down on his chair, Sherlock recited the foods eaten by the Very Hungry Caterpillar in several different languages to keep his brain busy. Languages were his job, and Rosie’s Russian and French were coming along nicely. It may be time to begin on German, he mused, distracted for a moment.

“Ready!” Rosie announced, wiggling as John wiped a flannel at her jam-covered face.

“This is mainly for Daddy,” Sherlock told her, “but there’s one for each of us, too.” Sherlock’s heart was beating faster, and he flicked his eyes up nervously to John, who’d cleared the breakfast table before joining them on the couch. He looked mildly intrigued, Sherlock noted, fumbling with the box.

“Scissors?” John suggested, but Sherlock had ripped the packaging open with his bare hands. It was perfect already, he saw with relief, his shoulders sagging as some of the tension drained away. He took out two of the boxes, labelled JHW and RMW respectively, keeping the one marked WSSH for himself.

“These are very special,” Sherlock said, holding his own at Rosie’s eye level.

“They have our letters on them!” Rosie exclaimed, tracing the R on her own, then examining John’s and Sherlock’s.

“Yes, they do.” Sherlock replied. He swallowed, looking at John now. “There’s something inside for us to all wear so that people know we’re a family.” John’s eyes, a little cloudy with puzzlement, began to clear. Sherlock rushed on, “Each on is a little different but when people see them they will know we love each other forever and ever. Until death do us part.” Sherlock added at the end, a questioning tone creeping in. He’d watched John’s face change as he realised what Sherlock was doing, until his eyes were wide and a little shiny with tears. He nodded, a quick jerky movement, one hand coming up to cup Sherlock’s cheek as he pressed their lips together in a firm, chaste kiss. “Yes,” John breathed thickly, the broad grin contagious, spreading across both men’s faces. They pressed their foreheads together, hard.

“Daddy!” Rosie squealed, jumping up between them. She’d been working on opening her box, too impatient to listen to Sherlock do grownup talking. Two tiny silver rings hung on a chain from her fingers. “Look! It’s beautiful!” she turned to John and frowned at his unopened box. “What’s in yours, Daddy?”

John fumbled to open his own box, watching Sherlock do the same. He took out a jeweller’s ring box, glanced tremulously at Sherlock before opening it. A brushed, plain silver ring, probably tungsten (Sherlock’s favourite element) sat inside. John picked it up and noticed the inside was not as plain as the outside. Tilting it, he saw one side bore the whorls and waves of a fingerprint. The other had three tiny words engraved in tiny print. _Could be dangerous_.

“Sherlock?” John asked, his voice unsteady.

“Tungsten is exceptionally robust.” Sherlock explained. He wrapped his fingers around John’s, looking at the inside face of John’s ring. “The fingerprint is mine. As long as you wear the ring, it will be pressed against your skin. And the words…” Sherlock faltered.

“I remember.” John whispered. He slid his own ring on, feeling its unfamiliar pressure, smiling as he thought about Sherlock’s fingerprint against his finger. Sherlock’s ring was still in the box, so John took that, too, seeing the fingerprint (his own, he assumed) and the same engraving within. _Could be dangerous._

“The rings on Rosie’s necklace are exact copies of ours.” Sherlock explained, and all three heads bent over the tiny rings, straining to pick out the details. The workmanship was exquisite, Sherlock noted with satisfaction.

“What do you say to Sherlock?” John prompted the little girl, who was holding still while John fixed the clasp.

“Thank you!” She said, flinging her arms around him. John followed suit, enfolding them all in a hug, burying his face in Sherlock’s curls. He was glad it was over now – knowing that Sherlock had been planning this for almost a week had been excruciating, and he’d barely been able to contain himself. Only Sherlock’s clear irritation when John had returned from the bar, then the immediate presentation of a case (a solid 9, thank goodness) had prevented him from deducing that John knew about Sherlock’s plan.

Sherlock sighed, pressing a kiss into Rosie’s head as she danced off to admire her new necklace in her bedroom mirror. He felt John’s fingers intertwine with his.

“Dangerous?” John murmured.

“Seemed appropriate.”

“Indeed.” John replied contentedly.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt:  
> Headcanon: Mike Stamford was in Series 2&3 because he will only come back in Series 5 when John is in a relationship with Sherlock and talks to Mike and says "I'm thinking about marriage" and Mike responded with "You're the second person to say that to me today" and John will ask "Who was the first?" AND CUT to Sherlock buying an engagement ring.


End file.
